Funeral
by Le Soir et La Nuit
Summary: An alternate ending to the funeral in "Die Me Dichotomy"


**Category:** Mmm . . . this is probably either drama or general. I'm not entirely sure where you put this kind of fic, so I'll just drop this in . . . general?  
**Spoilers:** This is set halfway through the Funeral scene in Die Me Dichotomy, so it spoils up to there, I suppose. It probably won't have spoilers from every single episode, but . . . just be careful.  
**Rating:** Definitely not G, can't be R, so it's got to be PG or PG13. I'll say PG13 to be safe.  
**Author's Note:** This is AU. Alternate universe. It didn't happen, and (with luck) it won't happen. I'm just writing this because I think this is how it should have gone, well, actually, how it could have gone. To me, it makes sense—some of you probably won't get why I'm saying it could happen like this—people have different views on personalities and the choices people would make. *sighs* What I'm trying to say is, don't slaughter me because you don't think this'd happen. Feel free to state your opinion—just don't say that my fic's wrong just because you think differently from me. Please?  
**Feedback:** Please, pretty please, with a cherry on top?

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## Funeral

"D'Argo, gimme your knife." It was the first full sentence he had uttered since Aeryn had died. After her death, he had been completely silent. When D'Argo had restrained him, when D'Argo had put him in a cell, he hadn't said a word. He had simply let himself be led along, passively, as though he didn't have the will to do anything else. He hadn't cried in front of them, but Zhaan had heard sounds that sounded suspiciously like crying coming from his cell. And one of the guards had once reported that he heard screaming coming from Crichton's cell, and when he had gone to check on him, the human was sleeping, albeit restlessly. Although on the surface, Crichton had been the least affected by the death, inside, he was mourning the most of them all. The others on Moya cried, and grieved in their own ways, but they would move on. But there was a deeper hurt in John, a hurt that could not be excised by simply moving on. He would carry the burden of Aeryn's death, but it wasn't just that. The others on Moya had the sense that he would be mourning as much as he was now if Aeryn had died not because of him. Ever since they had come on Moya, the Sebacean and the Human had seemed to have some sort of connection, drawing them closer and closer despite the friction that it caused. Most would call that connection love.

Out of surprise that John was actually speaking, D'Argo froze, not saying or doing anything. Then, just as he was about to reach for his knife and give it to John, the possibilities hit him. John might use the knife to escape, or to attack someone.

But the main fear that flashed through D'Argo's mind at that point was that John might kill himself. The loss was deep enough that John might decide that death was better than enduring his guilt. D'Argo knew that if he were in John's situation, and if he loved Aeryn as John did, he might kill himself. It would certainly be very prominent in his thoughts.

"Give me your knife."

He looked at Zhaan. Zhaan would know what to do. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed slightly, imperceptible to those who were not looking for it. But D'Argo was, and so he took out his blade and handed it to John. John walked slowly over to Aeryn's coffin, then paused for a moment, staring at her beautiful face, memorizing the lines and planes that only a few days ago had been animated with love, concern, humor—whatever emotion she felt. He memorized the dark brown color of her hair, the rich softness of it that almost begged to be touched, caressed, kissed. He memorized the slant of her cheekbones, the slight flush in her cheeks that was all that was left of life, the way her eyelashes brushed her cheeks, shadowing them slightly. He memorized Aeryn, and while he memorized, he remembered: remembered the way she smiled, the way her eyes grew bright with joy, the way the sun touched her hair, the soft, rich patterns of her speech, the way tears filled her eyes when she was sad, the way her eyes somehow reflected all her feelings, every facet of her being.

He bent down over her coffin, memories flashing in his eyes, and murmured, "Forgive me, Aeryn." It was almost a prayer. He wanted, needed to be forgiven, and he searched for some impossible sign that she would forgive him. And yet, there was none. He hesitated slightly, almost ashamed to admit this, almost ashamed to finally say it, finally realize it only after her death, and whispered, "I love you." He knew that Scorpius had said it before, he knew that Aeryn had said it before—he had managed to dig that much out of the bastard that was invading his mind. And he understood that she had already said this to him. She loved him, truly and completely—

Or at least, she used to.

John leaned forward some more and gently brushed her lips with his own, as he had only a few times before. This kiss was but a shadow of those that they had shared before, but Aeryn's corpse was just a shadow of her being. She would never live again, he would never kiss her as he had before, he would never listen to her laugh, he would never be able to tell her anything. He would never be able to introduce her to his father, she would never see the real Earth. She would neer feel the rain on her face. He would never touch her again.

He felt the tears slipping from beneath his closed eyelids, and he sniffled slightly. He knew he had to just get this over with, stop strolling down the memory lane. But it hurt so much. He would never be able to give up Aeryn, and he knew she would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He took a lock of her hair and held it against his manacles. Then he used the knife to cut that lock of hair. It severed cleanly, with a little click of metal on metal. John grabbed the lock of hair and pressed it to his lips, feeling the softness of her rich hair. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be transported back in memory, remembering everything that they'd done together. And he knew that he couldn't leave it like this. Aeryn, somehow, had worked her way into his heart, and without her, there was a gaping hole in him, a wound that even time could not heal. He couldn't leave her, and yet he had to. He needed her, but he had to move on.

Almost unconsciously, he moved his hand, positioning the blade. The cold metal against his wrist made him look down. Somehow, without looking, he had positioned the tip at the major vein in his wrist.

"John?" asked Zhaan, concerned.

He had to choose. Life or death, revenge or Aeryn.

Not much of a choice.

He tightened his grip on the blade and slid it slightly forward, but suddenly, his hand jerked back. A voice in his head gently whispered, 'No, no, no, John . . . You have to live on.'

John was frozen, locked in a battle of wills, him against that bastard Scorpy who was haunting him, destroying his friends, his life. That bastard had taken from him everythng that he cared about. Honor, love, life without fear—the bastard had made it so that life simply wasn't worth living.

He jabbed forwards visciously, feeling the point penetrate flesh. Then he transferred the knife to the other hand and pierced his other vein. The blood began to spurt from his veins, spattering over his leather jacket and Aeryn's coffin, but not Aeryn herself. Delicately, he bent over and brushed Aeryn's lips again, and whispered, "Good-bye." Then he stood up, not caring whether the others saw the blood that was spurting from his wrists, not caring whether the others knew that he was killing himself, just as long as he died. Just as long as he could be with Aeryn.

When she saw the blood, Zhaan came rushing to him, but he fended her off. "Please, just—" He didn't have the energy to finish off the sentence, and Zhaan didn't respond, but as John felt himself stagger, he felt her gentle hands touching him, easing him down to the floor. He knew that he must be losing a lot of blood to be getting this woozy this soon, but that was his intention. His vision fogged, and he vaguely felt Zhaan pressing on his wrists, trying to stop the bleeding. Scorpy was shrieking in the back of his head, but that was a mere babble, like the shrieks of Chiana and the nervous calls of Stark for the surgeon. John shook his head at Zhaan, trying to indicate that she should stop, but she seemed to pay no heed. He mustered up the energy to speak, and said, "Stop!" then collapsed. The pressure of Zhaan's hands released after a while, and he heard D'Argo's deep voice saying something. Then all he could hear was crying, and he slipped into unconsciousess.

"Aeryn . . ."

THE END

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**Disclaimer:** These characters aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them from their creators to . . . well, I suppose you could call it working out how I feel. Oh, and feel free to scream at me about the fic, and how depressing it is, but you chose to read it.


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